


hold me tight and i'll sink in

by icicaille



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (the usual), Awkwardness, M/M, Miscommunication, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 21:25:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4115440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille/pseuds/icicaille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One shave, plus a few misunderstandings.</p><p>
  <i>This is unbearable, to be so close and deny himself the pleasure of touching Valjean, of mapping Valjean wholly by hand and mouth. Javert has always prided himself on his powers of restraint and discipline, but such things have been impossible with Valjean near. The man makes everything impossible.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold me tight and i'll sink in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [carnival_papers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnival_papers/gifts).



> HAPPY (extremely belated) BDAY <3
> 
> this was supposed to be 1k, but... clearly i lost control. also sorry in advance for the world's worst sex scene.

It has been three days. Three days since he pinned Valjean to the wall and kissed him. Three days since Valjean took his hand, tentative and unsure, and led him to the bedroom. Three days since he explored the most tender parts of Valjean, and let Valjean do the same to him.

The next morning, he awoke to an empty bed. Valjean has always risen with the dawn and begun his day early, but his absence here—only a tiny hollow beside Javert signaled that anyone had ever been there at all—felt more like an affront than mere habit. Still. Javert would not blame the man if he regretted it.

Once he found Valjean out in the garden later, knees planted squarely into the earth, they passed the rest of the day—and every day since—in bromidic conversation, without a single mention of the previous night. Javert has considered broaching the subject at times, but the words simply do not come. Yet Valjean's face whenever their hands brush accidentally speaks volumes; he looks nervous, chagrined, as if he does not know what to do with himself. Javert wishes they might at least flounder in their uncertainty together.

He does not know how to behave either, how to tell Valjean he wants it again so desperately he fears it might destroy him. He can scarcely believe that Valjean permitted his touch—wanted it, even—but stranger things have happened, he supposes. That Valjean permits Javert to share his life at all is a strange thing indeed.

Now, observing Valjean at his ablutions this morning in the kitchen, Javert feels like he is encroaching on something private and improper. Valjean has been gracious enough to permit him use of the spare room for the past three nights, but the distance between them is swelling rapidly, has been since they finished that night and Valjean turned away from him. If they are to continue as they once were—friends and nothing more—then Javert should withdraw, detach. He has no right to watch Valjean shave, or perform any other intimate ritual, as if this were a sight he should be greeted by every morning.

But Javert is captivated by the spectacle. Valjean is cleaning his razor meticulously, swiping it between the swathes of linen he keeps on hand for the occasion. He glances in the mirror hanging on the wall, cloudy and caked with dust, and ducks his head away just as quickly. Javert wonders how a man who recoils from his own reflection can bear to shave himself with any regularity.

Valjean collects the soap from a cupboard on the other side of the room and sets it on the table next to the razor. Then he peers into the mirror once more, grimacing, and unfastens the top button of his shirt. He says nothing, but Javert is not surprised by his silence; they have passed long hours together in the garden without a single word emanating from Valjean.

He is more surprised by Valjean's assent to this scrutiny. When he had wandered into the kitchen scant minutes ago, looking for a glass of water and finding Valjean arranging his shaving kit, Valjean had only nodded and said, "Good morning, Javert," and returned to his preparations. Javert had taken a seat at the table, mouth dry, waiting for—something.

He has never seen Valjean do this before. The fluidity of Valjean's hands as he dabs the brush with water and swirls it in the soap is mesmerizing, and Javert aches to touch him. The ache has been unceasing for three days, to be remedied only by the proximity of Valjean's skin.

Suddenly a thought blossoms in Javert's mind. If they cannot come together, perhaps this might suffice instead.

Javert clears his throat. "I could—" He gestures vaguely in Valjean's direction. "Do that for you. If you'd like."

Valjean's hands halt in mid-air. "Oh," he says, mouth slightly agape, not bothering to conceal his astonishment. He looks down at the razor and manages a strained smile. "Thank you, but there is no need. I can manage on my own."

"I mean—I'd like to. If you'd let me." Javert swallows. Has he overstepped? Perhaps their understanding is a thing of the night, where he may only touch Valjean in the refuge of the shadows.

But Valjean hesitates, then nods. "Yes," he says. "You may."

Javert lets out a slow breath. He had not expected Valjean to grant this license. He would have been content to watch, in truth, but he offered and Valjean accepted and now he must see it through.

He motions for Valjean to sit in the rickety wooden chair next to the water basin. Standing over Valjean, he inspects the tools: razor, strop, soap, cloth. The blade has already been honed—Valjean must have done it earlier this morning—so all that remains is the lather and the shave. That should be simple enough, yet Javert cannot shake the nerves coiling in his chest. His hands are trembling. He prays Valjean does not notice.

He tries to focus on working up a fresh lather in the jar, rather than the way Valjean's eyes are pinned on him. It will not do to come undone so soon, not when he still has a duty to perform. He applies the lather briskly to Valjean's face, over his neck and jaw, around his nose. At least Valjean does not look so irrestible at present, with a foaming beard of white up to his ears. Javert stifles a laugh.

Then he picks up the razor. 

Instantly, he remembers the glint of a knife in the dark, nestled against his throat. It had seemed inexorable: the steady skim of the blade over his skin, painting in wet crimson slashes. But then it disappeared and his world abruptly turned upside down.

And, later, the measured strokes of practiced hands, erasing the weeks-old traces of his ignominy. Valjean had not permitted use of the razor for nearly a month, insisting that he would give the shave despite Javert's protests that he was neither child nor invalid and could handle himself. Javert yielded eventually, of course; by then, yielding to Valjean was beginning to come naturally, without a second thought.

Yet what manner of companionship may be founded upon a history of sharp things pressed against soft places? Javert has contemplated it far too often. He fears the doubt will drive him mad; surely what they have is not right or proper, will never be. But for all the knives at Javert's throat, he has never been the one chosen for slaughter, for decades of labor and toil. To offer his services as an ersatz barber now, as if Valjean should have no reason to fear his touch—it is unthinkable.

Javert has always been cautious with his touches, economical. Even when they kiss, which rarely happens in daylight, he refrains from gripping Valjean's arm too tightly, or biting his lip too fiercely, lest he ever take more than he is given. 

When they finally came together three nights ago, Javert tried to commit every detail to memory: the smooth skin at the inside of Valjean's thighs, the cords of muscle at his shoulder, the shocked oval of his mouth upon completion. He could lose himself in those fleeting memories forever.

Valjean is staring at him, eyes flitting from Javert's hands back up to his face. He coughs once, politely, and Javert is transfixed by the workings of his throat.

"I am ready," Valjean says.

"Ah," Javert says, flustered. "Certainly." He feels foolish already. His eyes linger over Valjean's open shirt and bare neck, and immediately the ecstacy of such a tableau sours to shame. He is doing this for Valjean, not for his own depraved pleasure.

Valjean has not stirred an inch in the chair; his back is a straight, unmoving line against the wood. Javert hovers over him for a moment, razor in hand, poised somewhere between dread and anticipation—and then lays into the first stroke. He swipes the blade along the angle of Valjean's jaw and passes over the same territory once, twice, until no traces of stubble remain.

Javert moves to Valjean's chin next, pulling the skin taut so it does not trip the blade, all the while concentrating intensely on the task at hand. He does not allow himself to inhale Valjean's scent, or notice the way Valjean's lips are parted slightly, his breathing calm and even.

They are too close. Javert imagines bending down and closing the gap between their mouths. Instead, he steps back and inspects his handiwork, frowning; he has not finished even half of the shave. He pauses briefly to wipe the razor clean, and then returns it anew to Valjean's cheek.

Javert is comforted by the steady susurrus of scraped skin as he works—the repetition of it dulls his desire, somehow. His passes are bolder and quicker now, less fettered by caution, and Valjean's face is smooth within minutes.

When Javert reaches Valjean's neck, the only territory he has yet to cover, Valjean's breathing quickens minutely. The skin is softer here, weak and assailable, and Javert hesitates as he sets the blade against it. Looking up, he does not mean to meet Valjean's eyes, but it happens—and the spark of something kindles between them.

This is unbearable, to be so close and deny himself the pleasure of touching Valjean, of mapping Valjean wholly by hand and mouth. Javert has always prided himself on his powers of restraint and discipline, but such things have been impossible with Valjean near. The man makes everything impossible.

Javert prays for control and scrambles to finish the final passes before he does anything unforgivable. That done, he retrieves the linen cloth from the table and swabs it lightly across Valjean's face and throat, wiping away the vestigial flecks of foam.

And—there, finally. He is finished. They no longer have to bear the agony of this closeness. 

"Well, that should do it," Javert says, setting the razor and cloth back on the kitchen table. To his own ears, his voice sounds steadier than he feels.

"Thank you," Valjean says. He does not sound so steady.

As Javert moves to let Valjean rise from the chair, he spies a stray dot of white on Valjean's cheek he must have missed and sighs. Careless. Instinctively, he reaches out to efface it. His hand is animated by some force greater than his own mind, however, and instead he splays his fingers across Valjean's jaw, the motion of them almost like a caress.

Javert thinks they both cease to breathe, then. The possibility of beginning something here hangs in the air. But Javert cannot stand the thought of Valjean shying away from him, so he does it first: he curls his fingers into a fist and lets it drop from Valjean's face back to his side.

"I shall fetch a mirror," he mutters, turning away. This was a mistake.

Then he feels the weight of iron clamp down on his wrist. He looks down. Valjean's hand has encircled it. 

"Wait," Valjean breathes. His face is tinged with red.

Javert tenses. Has he hurt Valjean somehow? The shave looks clean, but—

"Forgive me," Valjean says, all in a rush. "I did not know how to…" He trails off. 

Javert wishes for nothing more than to beat a hasty retreat from this charade. "To what?" he asks. The man is confounding, truly.

"To tell you that—" Valjean looks horribly embarrassed, but he draws in a long breath and squares his shoulders. "If you wish to—well, ah, touch me," he pauses to drag a hand across his face, wiping at his brow, "I would not object. That is—only if you wanted to, of course. I would not mind."

Javert does not know whether to laugh or scream or seize Valjean by his braces and kiss him. In the end, he chooses the last.

He had forgotten the taste of Valjean's mouth, the sweetness and the tang, and the incongruous softness of his lips. Finally, he understands the odes and poetry to the act of kissing, for nothing could be more glorious than this. Light and warmth explode inside him.

He bites at Valjean's lower lip, just hard enough to hurt, and then sucks at it, as if to soothe the sting. Valjean sighs into his mouth. Scraping his teeth gently against newly-shaven skin, he kisses his way down Valjean's jaw, emboldened by the force of Valjean's hands winding around his back.

"I am sorry," he says, mouth skimming over the curve of Valjean's neck, "I did not know if you wanted—I have been so careful—"

"No, I am sorry," Valjean says, breathless, pulling back. "I was afraid."

Of him? The sudden pain blooming in Javert's chest is hard to bear, then, and he shuts his eyes against it. 

Valjean winces. "No, please, Javert. No, I was afraid of—this." He waves a hand abstractedly, looks down at his hands on Javert's waist. "I do not know how to do this. What to say, or—anything. I am an old man; I have lived a lifetime without this. I never thought it would be granted to me. I never wanted it. Cosette has always been enough." He looks up at Javert. "Until now."

Javert shakes his head. God, they are both fools. "And I know how to do this even less," he says. "But I do know that what we did—I wanted it, too. I have never wanted anything more." He strokes a finger down the length of Valjean's arm. "I would like to know nothing together, if that pleases you."

Valjean gives him a tiny smile. "Yes," he says. "It does."

Javert cannot conjure any words for the relief that engulfs him, so he contents himself with kissing Valjean again. They may never be able to speak about these things, but as long as they can share the silence together—that is more than enough.

Kissing Valjean should be more than enough, too, but Javert is not satisfied. He craves the intimacy of that night: the crush of their bodies, the slickness and heat. The knowledge that Valjean also craves it—or so he says—is intoxicating. If Valjean is offering this to him, here and now, Javert decides, he will take it.

He pushes Valjean's thighs together so they fill the space between his own legs, and sinks down to straddle Valjean's hips, bracing his boots against the floor for purchase.

Javert has not accounted for the age or security of this chair—he hopes it will bear their weight—but when he inches forward on Valjean's lap to grind their hips together and Valjean moans, his thoughts turn to dust. 

"Can we—?" Javert asks, opening his mouth at Valjean's throat. He does not wait for the answer, making quick work of his cravat and flinging it to the floor.

"Yes," Valjean says, gasping. "Yes." He slings an arm around Javert's shoulder to pull him in closer. 

Javert turns to the buttons of Valjean's shirt, nearly ripping them from the seams in his haste, and slips a hand underneath to feel the heat of the skin there. Valjean is panting and his face is flushed—he already looks debauched, and they have hardly done anything yet. The thought stirs Javert more than it should; he tries to dispel it with a shake of his head. His trousers are tight enough already.

When Javert reaches the fastenings of Valjean's trousers, he hesitates. Valjean was not wearing trousers three days ago, only a simple nightshirt. It was dark, then, so dark he could hardly see where Valjean ended and he began. Here, they are fully illuminated by the low morning light seeping in through the kitchen windows.

The gravity of—whatever they are about to do prevails upon Javert, and suddenly he finds himself afraid, more afraid that he had been at the barricades or on the bridge. Taking this liberty with Valjean, it is too much. He does not deserve it.

Javert is about to remove his fingers from the buttons when Valjean's descend upon them. "Please," Valjean chokes out. He sounds lost, desperate. "It is alright."

Javert exhales shakily. Perhaps, if he is not alone in this desire, then...

"Please," Valjean says again. He clutches Javert's hands in his own. Their warmth is a comfort. Javert nods, then abandons all thought and tends to the buttons with trembling fingers.

When the front of Valjean's trousers fall open, Javert has to suck in a breath at the sight. What his hands have only brushed in darkness now looms before him, slick and solid and impossibly hard. Javert wonders what it would feel like in his mouth, inside him. He glances at Valjean, whose eyes are squeezed shut, and presses his thumb tentatively to the tip. 

Valjean jerks in the chair immediately, nearly dislodging them both. "Oh, God," he whispers.

Javert sweeps his thumb over the head again and curls his remaining fingers around the length of Valjean's cock. He pumps it slowly, ignoring the insistent pulse between his legs, devoting himself to wringing as much pleasure from Valjean as he can. It is easy to put off his need when Valjean looks like this: head thrown back, thighs spread obscenely, hands clenched white around the arm of the chair. His mouth hangs open; the sounds he emits are soft, shuddering.

Eventually, Javert tries the sharp pressure of a fingernail on the underside of Valjean's cock and earns another convulsion. The arch of Valjean's back shoots flares of heat up Javert's spine, and he realizes that the back of his shirt is soaked through with sweat. His arousal chafes intolerably in his trousers, too, but he cannot spare a moment to tend to it, not when Valjean writhes at every twist of Javert's wrist. But still Valjean does not open his eyes.

"Look at me," Javert says, in between strokes. "Valjean. Please." He cannot finish this unless Valjean is watching—unless Valjean knows this is real.

Valjean blinks, stares mutely at the slide of Javert's hand on him. He raises his head to meet Javert's eyes and flushes, but does not look away. Then he is scrabbling at the buttons of Javert's trousers and thrusting his hand inside even before the last one falls open, moaning, "Please, _please_ —"

They both gasp at the first graze of Valjean's fingertips on him. When Valjean wraps his hand around the full length of his cock and rubs once, timidly, Javert has to bite back a moan; soon Valjean has settled into an easy rhythm, slower than Javert's but stronger, surer.

He is sweltering and the angle is uncomfortable and their hands collide periodically, but Javert would not end this for anything. His hand on Valjean's cock quickens until he is panting with the effort, and the ache between his legs pounds as Valjean hastens his own strokes to follow suit. 

When Javert draws back to drag the tip of a finger across the head again, Valjean freezes. Javert sees his jaw go slack and hears his stifled moan, and then ribbons of white spill across his own fist and Valjean's shirtfront. Valjean's hand slips off his cock for a moment, but Javert is on the brink from the sight alone, undone by the heavy rise and fall of Valjean's chest as he struggles to catch his breath. 

Javert feels like he is falling from a great height, plummeting towards a pleasure so powerful he can hardly bear it, and he lurches forward to bury his face in Valjean's shoulder. There is a buzzing in his ears and a white film over his eyes. He gasps Valjean's name helplessly, and then he is coming, too, release spattering over their hands and shirts.

Javert remains immobile for what seems like an eternity; he does not trust himself to stand up without collapsing, for one thing, and the mass of Valjean's shoulder is warm, calming. He wants to say something—anything—to Valjean, but his tongue cannot find the words. 

Finally, he turns to gaze up at Valjean, searching his face for any traces of unease or regret. He finds none. Valjean's face is red and damp with sweat, but the corner of his mouth is tilted upwards, and he looks—content. 

Beams of sunlight stream across and over them, and all at once Javert finds himself poring over new possibilities, throwing light on them at last. He presses his thumb to the edge of Valjean's smile, and feels a jolt in his chest when Valjean turns his head to kiss it.

"Tonight," Valjean murmurs, "I do not think we will need the spare room."


End file.
